Paging Dr Flynn
by sunandsurf
Summary: Christian Grey is looking for a new therapist. He meets Dr John Flynn who offers a new form of treatment: Solution Focused Brief Therapy. Will it work for Fifty Shades?
1. Chapter 1

**Paging Dr Flynn**

"Sir, I have a Dr Paul Emerson on line one for you."

"Put him through, Edna," I say immediately, although I'm very surprised.

On the one occasion I met said doctor, his milk of human kindness was less than brimful. I suspect he sees me as an interloper ready to return the colonies to the good guardianship of the Queen. Which is to say, he barely tolerates my company, let alone seeks it. So I'm intrigued that he's calling my new consulting rooms, to say the least.

His booming voice causes me to hold the phone an inch away from my ear.

"John! Paul Emerson here. How are you? Settling in to Seattle ok, I hope. Not missing warm beer and fog too much."

"Very droll, Paul…" _The man is an arse. _"…and such an unexpected pleasure to hear from you. What can I do for you this fine morning?"

"I have something for you, John. A new client. I really don't have time to take him on myself, what with all the lecture tours and chat shows I've got lined up. I'd like to help: he comes from one of the finest families in Seattle… Did I say they want me to go on Oprah? Well, I don't like to mention it but… so here's the thing: this client is… challenging, shall we say. Yes, very challenging. But I'm sure a man of your talents won't mind that. And I know you have space in your schedule, John, which is to be expected, of course. And I'd like to help out a newbie."

_The man really does have patronising down to a fine art. Remarkable_.

"Well, goodness! That is extraordinarily generous of you, Paul. I presume the client has expressed an interest in the kind of therapy I can offer?"

"You mean SFBT? Well, ha ha, I wouldn't want to scare him off now, would I, John! No, I thought I'd let you do that – earn your fee, my friend."

_You are no friend of mine you self-serving, egotistical, flea on a pig's scrotum_.

"I see. The client will be in touch direct?"

"You can say 'no', John, if you think this isn't up your alley."

"I may very well, Paul; rapport is so necessary, don't you think?"

"As you say, John. Well, I'll give him your details – but don't say I didn't warn you."

_But you haven't warned me. About what?_

"Perhaps I'll see you on the fairways some time, John, show you how we play golf in the New World. No plus-fours and suspenders here!"

"Alas, Paul, golf is not within the range of my abilities," _I would rather walk over hot coals with bare feet in pink toenail varnish_. "Cricket is more me, old sport."

_Yes, I'm hamming up the English eccentricities but really, I just can't help myself. This man is such a wanker._

"Well, good chatting with you, John. You take it easy: or maybe you'd prefer to take it less easy and have a few more clients. Ha ha!"

"Your wit precedes you, my dear fellow." _Tosser_.

And I'm left staring at the receiver wondering what sort of client he's just sent my way.

The man sitting in front of me is young, about 25 I'd say, wearing a bespoke suit and well-shined Italian shoes. He has the kind of symmetrical looks and toned physique that are more usually found in professional male models. His gaze, however, is one that could well eviscerate at a thousand yards.

His appointment was made by an assistant but I wasn't given his name until I'd signed an NDA. In my opinion this is hardly necessary as I maintain the strictest confidence with all my clients. However, if it makes him more comfortable with my treatment, then so be it.

On receipt of the NDA I understand all the cloak-and-dagger behaviour. The client is one Christian Grey, CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings, billionaire and, so the gossip pages on the internet tell me, one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors. _Yes, I do my research using a variety of sources._

He has with him his own personal medical file which, he tells me, includes copies of his every psychological therapy and psychiatric treatment since the age of four. It is a very thick file.

His demeanour is bordering on hostility and I wonder why he has chosen to sit in my consulting rooms at all, his whole being radiating anxiety, tension and repressed violence. Why has he sought me out – or been sent in my direction? It's a fair question.

"So, Mr Grey, perhaps you'd like to tell me why you're here."

"I would have thought my file would make that self-evident."

He points at the manila folders on my desk with his chin, his long, manicured figures remaining tightly knitted on his lap. From everything I have read about him, subsequent to signing the NDA, I learn that he is a cultured man of high intelligence; I shall therefore treat him as such.

"Not at all. That merely shows me that you have seen a large number of verbose therapists."

A ghost of smile passes across his face before he frowns at me.

"Perhaps when you have made yourself acquainted with the facts," he waves at the file again, "you will find the evidence."

"Perhaps. But then I would be reading other people's opinions and I prefer to make up my own mind."

He sighs and looks down. I can imagine that he has had to make this same beginning many times over the years with many different therapists, doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, hypnotists, charlatans and arseholes viz. Dr Paul Emerson.

"I had a rough start in life, Dr Flynn. It has colored my life ever since."

"Coloured?"

"Yes, about fifty shades of fucked up."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"But still, I wonder what you would like me to do?"

He stares at me as if the question is new to him. Surely the other therapists have asked this man of intellect what _they _can do for _him_?

"I… I get very… angry. I find… have found… in the past… that talking can… sometimes… help." He pauses. "Sometimes."

"I would be happy to listen to you, Mr Grey; I would be happy to talk to you; but perhaps I should explain my approach so you can decide if you think you would benefit from what I have to offer.

"It seems to me, looking at this Everest of psychiatric intervention," I point to the mountain of papers he has deposited on my desk, "it seems to me that your rough start in life has been picked over endlessly. And yet here you are today, some two decades later. I would suggest, therefore, that your early years have been picked over, dissected, scrutinised and microscopically analysed ad nauseum…"

He nods.

"Well, my approach would be to forget all that…"

"How can I fucking forget it?" he says in a voice of quiet fury. I can see he's used to intimidating people.

"Let me finish: forget the procedure of analysing the past and focus instead on where you want to be."

He looks confused.

"Where I want to be?"

"I follow a method called Solution Focused Brief Therapy: in essence it means that we discuss what your goals are for, say, the next five years, and we discuss how these goals might be achieved."

"I already have a fucking five-year business plan!" he snorts in derision.

"I'm delighted to hear it: I refer to your personal goals. You spoke of feeling very angry. One goal, for example, might be to find an outlet to channel that anger…"

His smiles at me: it reminds me of a snake about to devour a rabbit head first.

"Oh, I have a number of ways of channelling anger, Dr Flynn. I suggest you read my file."

"And I might suggest that those channels are less than effective as you are still experiencing, as you say yourself, a great deal of anger."

He sits back and studies me.

"Perhaps," he agrees at length. "I would, however, prefer you to read the fucking file or I might die of boredom reciting the whole fucking thing to you."

His response makes me smile and he raises an eyebrow. _Yes, I think I can work with this man._

"Very well, Mr Grey. If you want to pay for the hours it will take me to read this magnum opus, I'll be happy to do so."

"I'll see you next week, Dr Flynn. Let's see if this Solution Focused Shit is any use."

"Indeed. I will be agog myself."

He smiles a genuine smile that lights up his curiously-coloured silver-grey eyes.

"Until next week, Dr Flynn."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I spend the next four evenings wading through the files. It's dispiriting and a depressing read. The trauma of his early life and facts of his adolescent years are challenging enough but what really cuts me to the quick, is how little help my profession has been able to offer him over the years.

Occasionally, here and there, I perceive a tiny glimmer of hope – a connection, rather – when it seemed as if someone might have started to make progress, but then abruptly the therapist was changed. It's not always possible for me to tell whether this was by my client's wishes, or the therapist's. And there have been, quite literally, a dozen of them. Since the age of four.

The only therapies, if you can call them that, that really seem to have made a difference were the ones initiated either by my client or his family: having a younger sibling to shower with unconditional affection; playing the piano; kick-boxing, to a lesser extent; and, of course, the initiation into BDSM relationships.

Whereas the first three provided a method of allowing my client to express some of his feelings, the latter drove his emotions inwards and appear to have exacerbated the intensity of his apparent self-loathing. It's also clear he's kept these contractual relationships a closely guarded secret from his family – from everyone – thus intensifying his emotional and physical isolation. And it's evident that this lifestyle, whilst once a mechanism for coping, has become less satisfying for him, although I don't believe he himself recognises this. Perhaps that's why, after so many failed and pointless interventions, he is still looking for help. That alone is encouraging: you have to want to change to effect change.

And, I have to say, from a professional point of view, I'm consumed with curiosity. The psychopathology is fascinating: haphephobia; the night terrors of his parasomnia; the morbid self abhorrence and feelings of personal worthlessness. His high intelligence coupled with poor empathetic skills and lack of emotional intelligence will be challenging, and I don't doubt our sessions will be stimulating. I'm looking forward to our next encounter.

"Dr Flynn."

"Mr Grey. Do come in. Please, take a seat."

He stalks into my consulting rooms, his expression wary, his body language defensive.

"You've read the files."

"I have."

"And?"

"And my comments are the same to you today as they were last week: for Solution Focused Brief Therapy to be of use, we need to discuss your personal goals."

"You want some fucking goals?"

I nod, not intimidated by his threatening tone.

He pauses to think about my question: I sense it has unsettled him. He likes to be in charge; he doesn't like to be challenged.

He stares at me, unseeing, then he spits out these words:

"I want to stop having the same fucking nightmares. I want to stop waking up bathed in sweat."

That's something we can work on. But there's so much more he needs to acknowledge if we are to have an open and honest relationship.

"Anything else?"

He glares at me, refusing to speak.

"What about your issues of being touched?"

"There is no issue."

"Oh?"

"I don't let anyone touch me. Situation resolved. No issue."

"Not a very satisfactory or permanent resolution, I would suggest."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what if you were to wish to have children, for example. Wouldn't you want them to be able to touch you?" I'm pushing him deliberately.

"What the fuck would I want with children?"

"Many people do," I offer gently.

"No. No children."

_Hmm. Interesting._

"Well, what if you were to meet a woman whom you wished to be with, and she wanted to have children?"

"I've told you: no children. I don't like to repeat myself, Dr Flynn."

"Well, Mr Grey, with the best will in the world, the only 100% effective contraceptive is abstention. What if one of your contractual relationships was to become pregnant?"

"That won't happen."

_Control issues again_.

"It could."

"She'd get rid of it."

"What if she didn't want to?"

"She'd do as I told her."

I try another tack. "So, you foresee no occasion when your fear of being touched would be a problem?"

"I make sure it isn't."

"So you are able to control every situation around you."

He pauses. "I try to. I like to be in control."

"Naturally, because it panders to your refusal to address the issue."

His eyes blaze at me.

"There. Is. No. Issue."

"With all due respect, Mr Grey, that's nonsense, and you know it."

He blinks, then leans back on my couch, his mouth closed in a hard line.

"None of us can control 100% of our environment 100% of the time. Your wealth enables you to predict and control far more of your surroundings than most people. But there must be times when that's not possible. To use a technical term: shit happens. I'm curious, what happens in a social situation if, for example, the wife of a business associate tries to kiss you or hug you – which are social norms, of course."

"I'm pretty good at reading body language, Dr Flynn; I can see when a woman is... about to pounce. I simply control the situation before that happens."

"Pounce? Is that what women do?"

He raises an eyebrow. "It has been known."

From what I've read, he's referring back to his initiation into the BDSM lifestyle.

"So your intuition never fails you?"

"Not so far."

"You're an expert in body language? People never surprise you?"

"What do you know about the BDSM lifestyle, Dr Flynn?"

"What I've read."

"Then let me explain. I study women: I have to. I need to know how far I can take them; what their breaking point is; what turns them on; how their minds work. My contractual relationships are based on trust: women trust me to know their bodies better than they know them themselves. So, yes, I am an expert in body language. And no, people rarely surprise me."

"Well, you're a lucky man, Mr Grey: people never cease to surprise me. Their ability to adapt to circumstances, to change when necessary."

"I know what you're doing, Dr Flynn," he says acidly.

"I'm delighted to hear it: it will save so much time for us to be on the same page," I say evenly.

I can see he's suppressing a smile.

"Mr Grey, you have come to me because there are things about yourself that you wish to change – and because you've run through most of the other therapists in Seattle." His eyes are alight with amusement, so I take the opportunity to move the conversation on. "I am willing to help you achieve your stated personal goal, provided you are willing to entertain the idea that goals – your goals – are a moveable feast, shall we say."

"Are you challenging me, Dr Flynn?"

"Of course, Mr Grey."

"Very well then. Until next time."

"Indeed. Let battle commence."

He stands, shakes my hand and stalks out of the office.

Yes, we have made progress.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Welcome back, Mr Grey."

"Dr Flynn."

He settles into an armchair, languidly crossing one long leg over the other. It's a demonstration of how at ease he is in my office, which, of course, tells me that his anxiety levels are high. And yet he's here: I believe he wants to progress.

"Have you thought any more about your five year plan?"

His eyes narrow. "I've got a fucking five year business plan, I told you."

"How reassuring for the department of labor in Seattle. But unless you need my help with your commercial enterprises, I can only assume that you're here to discuss your personal goals."

He scowls.

"Well, perhaps we can begin by discussing your parasomnia."

"Old news, Dr Flynn."

"Current affairs, Mr Grey. Would you tell me, in detail, what the dreams are about?"

He sighs and closes his eyes, a pained look crossing his face. When he opens his eyes, he seems resigned.

"There are two. In the first, the crack whore's pimp is smoking – cigarette after cigarette. He can't find an ashtray, but he can find me. He stubs them out on my chest, on my back, grinding them into me. The crack whore doesn't stop him; she just watches. The pain is excruciating, but she doesn't do anything – she never does anything. I can't protect myself, I can't protect her. I have no control over the situation: I can't stop him, I can't hide, I can't escape…"

The rate of his breathing has escalated and, although I doubt he realises realise it, both hands are gripping the arms of his chair, the knuckles bloodless and white.

"And the second dream?" I prompt gently.

"The crack whore is lying on the floor. She won't wake up. I'm hungry and thirsty and no-one comes. No-one ever comes."

Such horrific memories: and he has carried them since he was a small child. I know, from his voluminous files, that all his issues of anger and the need to control stem from these formative events. But I can't change those: instead I want to uncover what provokes the night-time memory of them now, and how I can help my client manage them better, to move forward emotionally.

I am briefly distracted wondering how Gardner's theory of multiple intelligences could be applied – or not – to my client. Grey is high scoring on the spatial, linguistic, logical-mathematical, musical and naturalistic scales. His bodily-kinesthetic response is also high but doesn't address his haphephobia or self-abhorrence. It is the interpersonal and intrapersonal descriptors that interest me.

Clearly he is skilful in reading others' moods, feelings, temperaments and motivations: without this ability he would be a poor leader. He understands what people need to work well and yet, beyond the business environment, he appears to lack empathy. Or, perhaps it's more accurate to say, he avoids situations that are outside the business environment where emotional literacy is implicit.

Any yet I can't deny that he is introspective: he has a deep, if flawed, understanding of the self. He knows his strengths and weaknesses; he knows and avoids situations that will provoke strong emotions within him. He is able to predict his reactions and likely emotions in a fixed number of situations, so he attempts to control where and when this will happen. But, and it's a big but, his understanding is based on self-abhorrence. Ultimately, he feels unworthy of love. The medical notes indicate he has received unconditional love from his adoptive family, but it seems this serves only to increase his self-loathing because he doesn't understand _why_ they love him; he also believes that if they knew the 'real' Christian Grey, they would, in his view understandably, cease to love him.

He doesn't believe love can be unconditional: this is at the very root of his vulnerabilities. I strongly suspect that there is something else that has not been revealed in the files, something he may even be unaware of himself, another reason why feels unlovable and unworthy of love. Until we can confront this together, progress will be… well, there won't be any progress.

I don't feel our relationship is at the point where he will open up to me on this so instead I try to find out what situations are most likely to cause the recurring dreams.

"Do you keep a diary, Mr Grey?"

He rolls his eyes. "For fucks sake! Yes, I have an assistant who organises it for me."

I smile. A typical Grey response.

"I meant a personal diary."

"Of course not."

"Oh? There's an obvious reason why you wouldn't?"

"What's the point? I don't need something sensational to read on trips."

He raises an eyebrow. He's testing me: have I picked up the reference to Wilde? Interesting: this is the writer that comes to his mind: the brilliant, gifted, tortured outsider.

"I presume you have tried to identify a pattern that triggers the parasomnia?"

He shrugs, his half-smile fading. "It's always there: stress, a bad day, sometimes even after a good day when things have gone well. I can't see a pattern. If I could, I would control it better."

"Humour me, Mr Grey. Keep a personal diary for a week. Even if it doesn't help you, it will help me."

"Oh for fucks sake! Is this the best you can do? A fucking dream diary?"

"That's not what I'm asking: don't deliberately misunderstand me, Mr Grey, it wastes time for both of us."

A surly expression crosses his face and a light goes on in my head. This man has never had a proper adolescence. Being seduced by a female dominant at the age of 15 swept him into an adult world of extreme sexualised behaviours. In essence: he has missed out the emotional developmental stages that would in others have led gradually to adulthood. His high achievement educationally and in business has assisted him in masking this lack of emotional growth. He really doesn't like to be challenged and his response is that of a young adolescent.

I change tack. He's an intelligent man, a manipulative man and despite the fact he has sought my help, he's not prepared to be entirely candid either.

"Describe your submissive to me."

He leans back in the chair, still tense.

"She comes to my apartment on Friday evening at the time I tell her, then…"

"No, tell me what she looks like."

He blinks, surprised.

"Why do you want to know that?"

I raise an eyebrow without answering.

"She's about 5'5" with long brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin."

"What's her name?"

"Karin."

"And what does she do?"

"In my apartment?"

"No, in the hours when she's not with you."

Grey frowns. "She works part-time; in a department store. Why are we talking about her?"

"What do you think she sees in you?"

"What?"

"What does she get out of her relationship with you?"

"Sexual gratification. I make sure she eats healthily and drives a safe car."

"Anything else?"

"Like what?"

"What do you talk about?"

"Talk?"

"I assume that in between bouts of… sexual gratification you must actually speak to her – with words – or do you write her notes?"

He doesn't know whether to lose his temper or laugh. He chooses the latter.

"Yes, we talk."

"About?"

"I don't know: music, sometimes."

"What sort of music does she like?"

"She likes what I like."

"How do you know this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps she just tells you what you want to hear."

He frowns again but doesn't reply. I can see that this train of questioning has made him think. Good: if he can see his submissive as a person in her own right, not just someone for his own sexual gratification, perhaps he will begin to reconnect with the emotions that can be part of a loving, sexual relationship. He's at the start of a very long path: will he take that step?

I prompt him when he doesn't respond.

"Have you ever asked her to play music from her I-pod's play list? Or does she have CDs in her car that she listens to?"

I can see that he has no idea and, moreover, the thought has never occurred to him.

His expression darkens.

"She's not there to discuss the fucking weather."

"Just to fuck?"

"Yes, Dr Flynn. Just to fuck."

"I'm surprised."

"Why?"

"I understood that in business, information was everything. And that much as you deal in manufacturing, agrichemicals or telecoms, information is the currency."

"Your point?"

"Is obvious, Mr Grey: you seem to know very little about the woman who shares eight days out of every month with you."

"I know what I need to know," he growls.

"Tell me about the submissive you had before Karin."

"This is fucking tedious, Dr Flynn."

"You're free to leave at any time, Mr Grey."

He doesn't like my reply. His body tenses, as if he's considering standing up and walking out. His face, however, remains impassive as he makes his decision. I can see how many people would find that blank look intimidating, chilling even.

He exhales deeply and begins to speak.

"Her name was Leila."

"Tell me about her. What did she look like?"

"Same as the others."

"I'm sorry?"

"Long brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, petite."

"All your submissives fit this description?"

He nods.

"Why is that, Mr Grey?"

He looks puzzled. Clearly he's not thought about this in depth. "It's what I find attractive."

"So you've never had relations with blue-eyed blondes, or red heads, or women of a different ethnic group?"

"I wouldn't say 'never', but for my submissives, no, not really."

"Not really?"

"My… a friend subbed for me for a short time: she had blonde hair and blue eyes."

"But not since then?"

"No."

"Why is that, do you think?"

"I told you, Dr Flynn: I like brunettes."

_I think there's more to it than that, _but now is not the time to push. I file away the thought for future examination.

"Tell me about Leila. When did your relationship with her end?"

"Six months ago."

"And why did it end?"

For a moment he seems discomforted, then replies, "she met someone else. She got married, in fact."

"And how did you feel about that?"

"Fine. They can leave whenever they want."

"Have others of your submissives left you?"

"It happens. Not often."

"How did you feel when she told you she was getting married?"

"It's none of my business: it simply meant the contract was terminated. I don't share, Dr Flynn."

His eyes gleam with sudden ferocity.

"Well, that's one version of safe sex, I suppose." I pause, allowing him time to let his temper ebb. "Tell me more about Leila."

"I think you were the one, doctor, who said that raking up the past was counter-productive."

"I said picking over the first four years of your life yet again would not get you to where you want to be; I didn't say we wouldn't discuss your BDSM lifestyle."

"Touché. A fair point, Dr Flynn."

"Thank you, Mr Grey." I glance at the clock on my desk. "But for today our time is up."

"Saved by the bell, Dr Flynn?" he arches an eyebrow at me.

"Merely postponed, Mr Grey. Until next time."

"Indeed. Good day, Dr Flynn."

"And to you, Mr Grey."

All my stories are now published on my Fifty Shades blogspot: sunandsurfblog dot wordpress dot com

Please come and visit. You'll also find 'Fifty Shades of Harvard' that FanFiction deleted recently. Thank you all for your amazing support and comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As a psychiatrist, although I prefer the less rigid term 'therapist', working in the field, I have counselled clients with a variety of mental health disorders. I have over 20 years' experience on three continents and have worked everywhere from hospitals to prisons, day centres to schools, military facilities to Britain's National Health Service. But private practice in Seattle has proved surprisingly challenging. A large part of that is down to one particular client: CEO, entrepreneur, parasomniac, haphephobic and BDSM practitioner, billionaire, one Christian Trevelyan-Grey.

He is, without doubt, one of the most intriguing and challenging clients I have ever had. His intelligence, arrogance, and formidable sense of self-preservation and isolation, make it particularly difficult to get through to him; I have to say that progress is slow… or possibly less pro-active than that.

I sometimes wonder if our sessions are less about therapy that leads to change, and more about being an opportunity for him to have a no-holds barred conversation about the things he can't, or won't, discuss with anyone else. I have to assume it helps or he wouldn't continue to come; as his therapist, I have to believe that.

Today I want to press him about his relationship with his family – and I know he won't like this. Frankly, he doesn't like being challenged on any level, yet he continues to come here. I must presume he finds something useful in our sessions. He is a paradox.

I note he is precisely on time, as usual. He has never been late, although his assistant has rescheduled some appointments at short notice.

And as always, he is immaculately dressed, but today, I observe that he has removed his tie. I would suggest that this shows he is beginning to relax a little with me. A small amount of progress, after all, perhaps?

"Good evening, Mr Grey."

"Dr Flynn."

"How have you been since we last met?"

"The usual."

"Which is?"

He sighs. "Fifty shades of fucked up."

"Why do you say that?"

"You're the doctor."

"That is an evasive answer, Mr Grey, wouldn't you say?"

He scowls. I'm sure it's a look that makes most of his employees quail.

"Well, is there anything in particular you would like to discuss with me today?"

He shrugs and looks away. I repress a sigh: it's one of those sessions where defibrillating a stone would have more effect.

"In that case, Mr Grey, let me pick a topic: your family, for example."

He sits up straight in the wing-chair and frowns.

"What about them?"

"How would you describe your relationship with them? With your father, for example?"

I wait. Finally, he speaks.

"Good."

I wait for another word. He waits, too. This session could be very long – and very silent.

"Would you like to risk another adjective, Mr Grey?"

We wait again. He sighs.

"My father is a compassionate man, an astute lawyer; he's… good."

_There's that word again._

"That describes your father; I asked how you would describe your relationship with him."

"We've already covered that."

"Hardly, Mr Grey. I don't consider a one word answer to cover a topic."

"It depends on the topic."

_More evasion_. I try a different tack.

"Well, perhaps you would be more forthcoming if I asked you to describe your relationship with your mother."

_I really hope he doesn't say 'good' again or I may have to consider retraining as an orthodontist. _

"She saved me."

_Better._

"You mean because as a young child she adopted you? How would you describe your relationship now? For example, would you describe your relationship as close?"

"Of course."

"Can you give me an example of that?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"What would you define as a 'close' relationship with her? Seeing each other, talking on the phone, sharing things in your life? You tell me, Mr Grey."

He shrugs. "All those things, I guess."

_Right_.

"Give me an example of something in your life that you've shared with your mother recently – in the last week, say."

"I've been busy this week."

"Well, in the last month then; an example of the close relationship you've agreed you have with her."

"I work a lot, Dr Flynn."

"I'm aware of that, Mr Grey. In the last two months?"

"Can we change the fucking record before tedium takes its toll," he snaps.

_He's angry because he can't give me an example. I want him to understand that relationships have to be worked at, to be managed, just like business_.

"Have you ever heard the saying, Mr Grey, that on one's death bed, no-one ever wished they'd spent more time at the office?"

"Isn't that a rather simplistic, if not trite observation, Dr Flynn?"

"On the contrary, I think it encapsulates a great deal. The nutshell of my point, Mr Grey, which you are forcing me to use a sledgehammer to crack, is that you claim you have a close relationship with your parents, yet you are unable to give me one single, _recent_ example of how you demonstrate that closeness. I might postulate that either the relationship is not as close as you claim… or that you are deliberately keeping your distance from your parents. In either case, I'd be very interested to know why."

He stands suddenly, his face white with fury.

"You know _nothing_ about my relationship with my parents, absolutely fuck-all!"

I remain sitting, my face impassive, but inside I'm delighted with his visceral response.

"My point entirely, Mr Grey. Nicely summed up if I might say so."

He is speechless; I'm relieved when his anger turns to something that might look like grudging admiration, were I not a mere humble psychiatrist.

He takes a deep breath and sits down, leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed.

"My parents are two wonderful people. I couldn't have had better parents; they've always done what they thought was right by me. They saved me; without them I'd probably be dead – or in jail – by now. But…"

I wait; he mustn't stop now.

"But they don't _know_ me. They don't know what I'm really like – what I'm capable of."

"Are you referring to your BDSM relationships?"

"Yes. Mostly that."

"How do you think they would react if they knew?"

His mouth twists unhappily. "They mustn't know; not ever."

"What if they did?"

"They'd be… disappointed, disgusted. Like any sane person."

"As I understand it BDSM is a lifestyle choice within a safe, sane, consensual environment; it deviates from social norms, but that doesn't make it insane. I'm sure you're aware of this."

"Semantics, Dr Flynn."

"A medical definition, Mr Grey. But how do you think your parents would respond if they knew?"

"Of course they'd walk away – they should."

_This surprises me._ "You think they would… abandon you?"

He doesn't reply but instead stares directly at me, his expression carefully controlled. It seems that fear of abandonment is at the heart of his secrecy. And of course, he sees his mother's death as a form or abandonment; it has led to this deep-seated anxiety that he would be abandoned again if his parents knew the 'truth' about him.

I sense I won't get any further with this line of questioning tonight.

"You say that your parents don't know of your contractual relationships."

"As I've said, ad fucking nauseum, Dr Flynn."

"What sort of relationships do they think you have?"

He smiles, a cold, cynical twist of the lips.

"They don't know; they suspect I'm either gay or celibate; in either place, they think I'm repressed."

"They've never asked you?"

"They respect my boundaries." He raises an eyebrow.

"So you find it more acceptable that they think you're something you're not: gay, repressed, celibate, than that you have safe, sane, consensual if contractual relationships with women?"

"Yes."

"So you believe your parents' love is conditional on not knowing what you have described as the 'real' you?"

A sharp intake of breath alerts me to his heightened reaction to my question.

I wait… and wait.

"Yes," he whispers, his eyes closed in pain.

And here we are. At last.

I speak slowly and carefully, feeling my way.

"Would you say you feel undeserving of your parents' love because they don't know… the 'truth' about you? That you are… in essence… unloveable?"

He nods, unable to speak.

Finally he drags in a deep breath and looks at me again. "I whip and fuck little brown haired girls because I need it. I'm fucked up; my parents have had to deal with enough in their lives. I put them through hell as a teenager – they don't need to know all this fucking shit about me. It would… it would kill them."

_I decide to press him, to take him further_.

"And you don't think that the distance you deliberately keep from them isn't painful, for them?"

He looks angry again.

"It's simply better that way, Dr Flynn, for obvious fucking reasons."

"The reasons may appear obvious to you, but will not appear obvious to them. They will simply see you distancing yourself from them."

He glares and crosses his arms, his body language closed in and defensive. But I have made him think, I hope. I change the subject, allowing him some room to step back mentally.

"You said that you 'whip and fuck little brown haired girls', correct?"

"Accurately remembered, Dr Flynn," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Why did you choose those words? They sound… rehearsed."

He looks surprised. "It's just the way I think of them."

"Of all of them?"

He shrugs.

"Do you think of them all in the same way?"

"Dr Flynn, I have no idea what the collective noun might be: a chain of subs?"

"Very droll, Mr Grey."

_He's using sarcasm as a defence mechanism._

"Describe a typical scene for me."

"What for?"

"Let's call it background research."

"Very well. She will wait by the door of my playroom in the appropriate position…"

"Which is?"

"Kneeling, eyes cast down, naked except for her panties."

"I see. Please continue."

"I enter the room and decide which pieces of equipment I want to use. I enjoy using the saltire, the crux decussata, as the key restraining device; so once she is fettered, I'll decide whether or not to give her an orgasm, depending on whether or not she has pleased me. I decide which toys I want to use, dildo, vibrator, anal beads, whip, cane, or flogger – and then I fuck her into next week, Dr Flynn, several times."

_Oh dear, Mr Grey, you'll have to do better than that if you want to shock me_.

"Very succinct, Mr Grey. And would you say you derive the most sexual gratification from her submission or from sexual congress?"

He thinks for a moment. "I'd say it's about fifty-fifty, Dr Flynn."

_How apt_.

"And for your submissives?"

"What about them?"

_Again, he seems unable to empathise, to think about or care about their reactions._

"Do you think they derive most sexual gratification from corporal punishment, submission to you, or sexual gratification through consummation?"

He frowns. "I don't know."

"You never asked?"

"Why would I?"

"To ascertain their levels of satisfaction."

He shrugs, arrogant. "I'm very good at what I do, Dr Flynn. I have, you might say, developed an enhanced sense of what women want."

"Interesting, Mr Grey: 'an enhanced sense of what women want' – only some women, of course, because the BDSM lifestyle is a minority one."

"I give the women in my playroom extreme sexual pleasure. What is your point, Dr Flynn?"

"Twofold: that you refer to the women in your playroom as a generic type rather than individuals; and that your sexual relations with women have been limited."

He looks amazed, almost amused.

"Limited?"

"Why yes, Mr Grey. Have you ever considered having a non-contractual, non-BDSM relationship with a woman based on, oh, let's be old fashioned, friendship, for example?"

"You mean vanilla sex?"

"I mean a relationship that doesn't simply isolate sex as its only criteria."

"That wouldn't be enough for me."

"So you have tried it?"

He looks uncomfortable.

"No, I haven't," he admits, at last.

"So, what makes you so sure that a relationship based on friendship rather than just sex wouldn't be 'enough'?"

"It just wouldn't."

"So you say, but why do you think this?"

He frowns. "This is the only kind of relationship I'm interested in."

"Mr Grey, you do seem to be singularly lacking in curiosity for a man of your intelligence."

He gapes at me, then anger flares in his eyes.

"You make some fucking big assumptions, doctor."

"So do you, Mr Grey."

His jaw tightens and his body radiates fury; for the first time during our sessions I'm relieved to know that my security buzzer is close at hand under my desk.

But he controls himself, although his breathing is still rapid.

"Something to think about, Mr Grey," I say quietly.

He leans back in his chair, his eyes still blazing.

"Let me ask you another question, Mr Grey; you come here and sometimes you want to talk to me and sometimes you don't; sometimes I think you want to shock me; sometimes you act as if my questions irritate you; you haven't disclosed your lifestyle to your family, so I wondered: other than me, is there anyone else who knows about you, about your lifestyle, with whom you are completely open and honest? A friend, perhaps? Maybe even one of your subs?"

He snorts with laughter. "Talk to my subs? Hardly!"

"Anyone at all?"

"There is one person," he muses.

I wait, unrewarded.

"Who is this person?"

"A friend, you could say."

"And what does your friend think of your lifestyle?"

He replies grudgingly.

"She's in the scene."

"A sub? An ex-sub?"

"Yes and no."

"Mr Grey, that is a rather cryptic answer: could you perhaps be a little more specific?"

"Yes, she subbed for me; no she's not an ex-sub."

"Still cryptic."

He sighs. "She's a Domme, like me. But she subbed for me for a while when I was learning the scene."

"I see. And you met her how exactly?"

His expression turns sullen, childish almost.

"I met her when I was 15."

And now he has shocked me. "You're talking about the woman who seduced you when you were 15?"

He nods.

"And you count her as a friend today."

"She knows me better than anyone."

_An interesting way of avoiding the question_.

He moves in his chair and looks at his watch. Clearly this topic makes him very uncomfortable – which makes me all the more curious, of course.

"I don't want to talk about her, Dr Flynn. Not now."

I agree: I think, for today, we have done enough.

If you want to read about Dark Christian, his early years after dropping out of Harvard, please go to my blog

**sunandsurfblog dot wordpress dot com**

and look for 'Fifty Shades after Harvard'.

This story was on FanFiction but they deleted; 'too explicit'!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It's been a long day and I'm really looking forward to going home and seeing Rhian and the boys. I glance at my schedule for tomorrow: I find it helps prepare myself mentally for the following day.

There's a flurry of noise outside which makes me briefly consider climbing out of the window because I know what it means: a distressed client seeking an urgent appointment. It's part and parcel of my work: anxiety and mental disorders don't keep office hours. But sometimes I wish I'd trained to be an anaesthetist: it must be so much easier having patients who can't talk back.

I sit back at my desk and look expectantly at my intercom, awaiting the message from my receptionist. So I'm mildly irritated when the door bursts open and Christian Grey storms into the office.

I admit I'm shocked.

He's within a hair's breadth of losing the thin veneer of control that I have come to expect of him. His face is tight with anger and some other strong emotion – fear, perhaps – and his eyes are blazing. One hand is fisted at his side, the other running through his hair as if he'd like to pull it out at the roots. He's not wearing a tie and his shirt is hanging out of his trousers on one side. I'm momentarily taken back to my student days when a quote from Shakespeare pops into my head:

Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced; pale as his shirt… And with a look so piteous in purport as if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors – he comes before me.

"Mr Grey?"

He paces up and down my room and I wonder if he'll explode or be able to rein it in. I'm betting on control: it's his raison d'être, after all.

Finally he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Would you like to sit down, Mr Grey, then perhaps you can tell me why you felt the need for this unscheduled appointment."

He stares at me as if he's having trouble absorbing the meaning of my words. Eventually he nods, walks more calmly towards a chair, and sits down.

My receptionist, Edna, hovers uncertainly at the door, earning her a scowl from my client.

"Edna, would you be so kind as to inform Mrs Flynn that I'll be home later?"

"Certainly, Dr Flynn."

She glances again at my client and quietly closes the door behind you.

And I wait. He's sitting with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. He appears to be in acute distress.

"Mr Grey… Christian…"

He looks up at the sound of his name, frowning slightly.

"Can you tell me why you're here?"

He shakes his head. I don't think it's a negative response to my question, more a hope of shaking some of the apparent disorder from his mind.

"Some weeks ago you asked me… about my submissives.

"Yes, I remember that conversation."

"_What did she look like?"_

"_Same as the others. Long brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, petite."_

"_All your submissives fit this description?"_

"You asked me why – why I find that attractive – the long brown hair."

I think he's going to answer the question with some insight that he's had but he doesn't. Instead he continues to stare at the floor.

"I didn't tell you I like to braid their hair before I fuck them."

This detail may seem insignificant but I sense that the opposite is true.

"For the last week I've had that question running through my head: why do they all look the same. It's been really fucking annoying."

For a brief second he looks up at me and he appears to regain some control, but then he immediately looks down again and runs his hands through his hair, a repetitive action that he seems to find soothing.

"I remembered something."

His voice has dropped to a whisper and for once he looks younger than his age: a lost, lonely and frightened adolescent.

"I used to play with her hair – the crack whore – my birth mother."

He takes a deep breath.

"I whip and fuck little brown haired girls because they all remind me of her. Oh, Christ."

And a few more pieces of the jigsaw fall into place.

"Do you want to add Oedipal Complex to the list, Dr Flynn?"

I think it's an attempt at humour, but I'm not sure.

"Well, that would certainly be a new stick to beat you with, Mr Grey, if you'll pardon the analogy."

He looks up blinking and he seems to relax a fraction now he's revealed his memory and the tenuous link that he's made between his past and present.

Freud believed that the Oedipal complex occurs in the phallic stage of psychosexual development: most usually between the ages of three and five. He argued that the phallic stage – becoming aware of the differences between males and females – serves as an important point in the formation of sexual identity.

According to Freudian theory, the boy wishes to possess his mother and replace his father, who he views as a rival for his mother's affections. It's not a view that I endorse and very few true Oedipal Complexes have ever been documented within the psychiatric community.

"I'm not much of a Freudian, Mr Grey. I would argue, as Grose does that the Oedipus Complex is more a way of explaining how human beings are socialised. She calls it 'learning to deal with disappointment'.

"There does, however, seem to be a link, as you suggest, between your desire to punish your mother, and the punishment your mete out to your submissives. Your mother let you down again and again: she failed to protect you and, ultimately abandoned you – as your younger self believed. You are unable to punish your mother, so you punish other women you believe look a little like her."

He's staring at me – drinking in my words, with an almost desperate need to believe them. But I think I've failed to convince him because his expression darkens and he looks down again.

"And then I fuck them – hard. I knew I was fucked up but this… this is sick, disgusting shit."

It's painful to watch his self-loathing deepen still further.

"Christian: you have said yourself that all your contractual relationships are consensual. You couldn't do the things you do without their agreement and mutual enjoyment. I see no Oedipal link there."

He shakes his head again and still won't meet my eyes.

"As small children the only contract we have with our mothers is to love them unconditionally. Babies are programmed that way. Adults are… more complex. But for a young child, it's a simple equation. You loved your mother: your control issues stem from the fact that you were unable to effect change in her life, control her surroundings and, in effect were unable to save her. Utterly unrealistic goals for a four year old child."

He stands suddenly, fury stamped in every feature of his face.

"That is such fucking crap! I didn't love her! She was a stupid, drug-taking whore who…" but his voice breaks and he can't speak.

I allow his anger and fear to ebb slightly.

"You have remembered something new about your birth mother: that you used to play with her hair. It is a pleasurable memory that many children have. But you have assumed that this is why you are attracted to long-haired brunettes. I myself like long-haired brunettes – my wife included. My mother, however, had blonde hair and hazel eyes. I do not assume that my liking for brunettes is atavistic in any way: it is simply what I'm attracted to you, I don't know why. Perhaps an admiration of Lynda Carter had something to do with it at an early developmental stage. You have assumed what you consider the worst about yourself, Christian, because you've programmed yourself to do little else over the last two decades. You have taken a happy memory and found the ultimate way to defile it because this fits your world view of yourself. I would simply offer that you have remembered something pleasant from your childhood and this disturbs you of itself."

He sits up slowly and finally looks at me. He picks on the most trivial point I have made, although I know he'll remember everything I've said.

"Lynda Carter?"

"Yes, or rather Wonder Woman. Perhaps it was the shiny blue shorts with silver stars."

"I liked her gold whip."

I'm relieved that his humour is back and intact.

"Yes, I can see how that might appeal to you."

He smirks at me but tension lurks behind his eyes and I don't think my suggestion, my alternative explanation, has convinced him: at least not yet. I know that he mulls over some of the things that I've said to him so I'm hopeful that he'll realise he's jumped to conclusions that are possibly erroneous.

I'm going to risk pushing him just a little further.

"Would you say you have any sexual urges towards your adoptive mother?"

His face, already pale, becomes ashen, then anger flares in his eyes.

"No, Dr Flynn, I don't. For Christ's sake!"

"As I thought, Mr Grey, so your assumption of an Oedipal memory of your birth mother is simply an extension of your belief that you are, in your own words, unworthy or love; in essence – unloveable. It's called a self-fulfilling prophecy. But patterns can always be broken: and this starts with self-knowledge and the wish to change."

There's silence and his eyes cool again. Instead he looks bewildered, out of his depth. His responses are those of an adolescent: black and white, unable to accept any shades of grey. How ironic.

"I think we should continue this conversation at a future session, Mr Grey. Perhaps you could have your assistant schedule one with Edna."

"Yes, I'll do that, John."

It's the first time he's used my given name although I'm not sure he's realised it. I can see him slowly recovering from the overwhelming assault on his emotions. Gradually he regains his self-possession, control sliding into place like a suit of armour. For the first time he notices his untucked shirt and quickly pulls it straight.

"Well, Christian, I think I need a drink after that. A large, malt whisky is the name of the game."

He looks faintly amused.

"What malts do you like?"

"I'm a traditionalist: Glenmorangie or Tallisker. Would you care to join me?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"Isn't that breaking the rules, Dr Flynn, drinking with a patient?"

"Firstly, Mr Grey, I use the term 'client', not 'patient'; secondly, I thought you only expected your submissives to adhere to rules; and thirdly, it's been a bloody long day."

A small smile escapes.

"A good point well made, John. In that case… I know a bar not far from here that serves 32 different kinds of malt whisky."

I follow him out of my consulting rooms, locking the door behind me. Edna looks relieved that she is able to escape, too. The dear woman insists on staying late if I have an urgent appointment. It's very kind of her and good practice, too; one shouldn't be alone with a client in a building. Heaven only knows what she'd think if she knew I were drinking with one. But Christian Grey is an exceptional man, so I shall make an exception for him.

We spend a pleasant hour or so talking about choral music: he likes Thomas Tallis, I prefer Taverner's organ pieces. We find we both enjoy Mendelssohn's 'Hear my prayer'. I can't help but think how apt that is. He offers me use of his box at the Seattle Opera House.

I'm concerned that he has assumed that his urge to punish women, and then fuck them, are desires both linked to his mother. I believe they are mutually exclusive and merely a result of the lifestyle he has embraced. I suspect I'll have my work cut out leading him towards that belief. His deepest impulses are towards self-loathing and any tool he can find to punish himself he immediately seizes.

But I think we've made a little progress day: a microscopic advance. Nevertheless, I find myself hopeful for his future.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

My initial hopes of a step forward seem to have suffered a paradigm shift.

Since our pleasant and engaging chat over malt whisky, my sessions with Christian Grey have been difficult, to say the least. He's cancelled two appointments without rescheduling, refuses point blank to try using a dream diary, and insisted that I call him 'Mr Grey' rather than 'Christian'. I won't be the least bit surprised if he decides to end our sessions completely.

It's a levelling thought, particularly as I'd believed I was beginning to get through to him. I fear I will be closing my case notes on this particular client. He won't be the first person I've been unable to reach or help: some people simply don't want to be helped. But I can't stop thinking he will be my greatest failure. Undoubtedly I have been arrogant in my belief that I was helping him move forward.

I read in the papers that he has acquired a shipyard, securing 3,000 jobs for the local economy. It's quite a departure from his telecoms empire. I was vaguely aware, from my research, that he had bought a ships' chandlers early in his career, but this seems to be a completely new branch of business. I wonder what has driven this acquisition: I fear I will never know.

I mull over my failings as a therapist whilst listening to the BBC's World Service internet broadcast, over a roast beef and horseradish sandwich at luncheon.

I am aware, naturally, that a therapist, in any discipline, needs to be able to erect and maintain a thin but invisible barrier between oneself and one's client – either that or be drawn into their lives in a way that is healthy for neither. There's no doubt that Mr Grey has piqued more than a professional interest: perhaps it's as well that he has chosen to keep his distance.

So I'm surprised and delighted when my dear, hard-working and matronly receptionist, Edna, informs me that she's just made an appointment for the aforementioned Christian Grey: in one hour.

I wonder if it's worth planning a topic: there are several areas of his life, well, about fifty in fact, that I would like to draw him out on, but I now know him well enough to assume that he'll drive our discussion. Or not – if it's one of his incommunicative days; I've several possible subjects up my sleeve.

I find myself looking forward to the verbal sparring that is sure to ensue.

At precisely 2pm, the intercom on my desk buzzes.

"Mr Grey to see you, doctor," Edna informs me.

I stand up to shake hands as he enters the room. He is well dressed, seemingly calm and in control.

"Good afternoon, Dr Flynn."

"And to you, Mr Grey."

I wave him to a seat and he sits, an elegant arrangement of Gucci-clad limbs.

"I apologise for cancelling two appointments recently, Dr Flynn," he states. "I have been otherwise occupied."

I'm taken aback that he has started our session with an apology: not his usual style at all. If anything, he is usually combative, bordering on aggressive. Sometimes passive aggressive; but this is new.

"To do with your purchase of a shipyard?"

He looks surprised.

"You have been doing your homework, Dr Flynn."

"Happenstance, Mr Grey: I merely bought a newspaper."

He seems affable so I'm keen to keep the conversation going.

"Not that I am au fait with your business, but it does seem a change of direction for you?"

His face acquires the blank, impassive look that I've come to recognise: he uses it when he wishes to hide his deeper feelings. He stills in his chair, deliberately holding himself in. _I've struck a nerve: interesting_. I decide to pursue this unexpected advantage.

He stares, his eyes locked on mine. It is one of his greatest weapons: utterly unblinking, he seems nerveless. I, however, know better and I can't help a small smile escaping.

"It is simply a good business decision," he says at length.

"Yes, indeed, because the shipbuilding economy is booming all over the world," I nod sagely, more than a soupçon of sarcasm in my voice.

He raises an eyebrow, but that is his only response. I pretend to sigh, "Well, I'm sure if anyone can turn it around you will, Mr Grey, but I understood there was a reason that most heavy manufacturing is moving to the Far East."

He doesn't reply or rise to my verbal riposte. _It's going to be one of those sessions_.

But then he leans forward and puts his head in his hands. Except for our impromptu meeting when he'd made the tentative and, in my opinion, unproven link to his submissives and his mother, it's the most vulnerable I've seen him. I'm intrigued as to what has brought this on. I sit back, hoping he'll give me a clue.

"I like building things."

He speaks so softly I can barely hear him.

Then he leans back and seems to make some sort of internal decision: he begins to talk.

"What do you know about the commodities market, Dr Flynn?"

_Oh?_

"As I understand it, it's a way of buying raw materials like coffee or cocoa beans or gold on a fixed contract as a sort of bet against which way the market will go. The aim is to buy at a cheaper price and sell at a better price. It's a form of gambling because the price can go up or down."

"Correct, Dr Flynn."

There's another pause. _Has he really come here to give me a lesson world economics?_ I must be patient.

"I don't trade in the commodities or futures market, Dr Flynn. GEH has no interest in that sort of… how did you put it… gambling. I want my company to stand for something more than a way of making money."

_Interesting_.

"Go on."

"It's possible to make large profits by buying up all the coffee beans, for example, creating a shortage, and waiting for the world price to rise to ensure profits."

"Indeed."

"If I liquidated all my assets, I could buy up 17% of the world's supply of wheat. I alone could force prices to rise to the point where my current wealth would pale into insignificance."

I'm appalled. _Is this his plan?_ I'm reminded that the definition of a business – to derive the best profit it can, where personal cost or lives destroyed is simply collateral damage and of no interest. It is shockingly similar to the definition of a psychopath:

'psyche' from the Ancient Greek for 'soul or mind' and 'pathos' meaning 'suffering' or in medical terms a disease or condition.

The characteristics of a psychopath include: shallow emotions and lack of empathy; coldheartedness; superficial charm; manipulative qualities and egocentricity.

One might conclude that these can be applied to Mr Grey. But a true psychopath also lacks guilt, is often irresponsible and may display a number of antisocial behaviours. Mr Grey, however, carries more guilt than one person can easily support.

Neither do I believe that his emotions are shallow: in fact I would argue that the opposite is true. He has simply become an expert at hiding his emotions. It is one of his characteristics that must make him a formidable businessman.

He looks up at me and I realise I'm still staring at him.

"And do you plan to buy up 17% of the world's production of wheat?"

"You can't eat money, Dr Flynn," he says, wearily, meeting my eyes.

I admit I'm having some trouble following his chain of thought. I'm not sure Mr Grey has _chains_ of thought: he seems to make leaps of intellect, leaving us lesser mortals to try and catch up.

"Ships deliver food around the world," he says softly.

And suddenly we're on the same page.

"You intend for the ships you build to freight food around the world – to help feed people."

He shrugs, looking uncomfortable again.

"Perhaps. Yes."

"So… this new business venture is, to use your word, perhaps more to do with a philanthropic ethic?"

He snorts with derision.

"I'm hardly a philanthropist, Dr Flynn. I'm a fucking billionaire! I don't 'love humanity'!"

"You're being disingenuous, Mr Grey. That is one definition of a philanthropist. Another is 'private initiatives for public good'. That does seem to fit you: and I am aware of your funding of the farming initiatives at WSUV."

"That's just good business," he mutters, defensively.

"How so?"

He gives me his stubborn teenager expression. _I hope my own children don't develop that look or _I'll_ be the one in therapy._

"Why does it bother you that I see _some_ of your work as philanthropic?"

"Because that's bullshit."

"How so?" I repeat my question, and he narrows his eyes, refusing to answer.

Well, I'm not letting go this time: he's here for a reason and I shall get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do, which, looking at the expression on his face, may well be the case.

"You are a philanthropist, Mr Grey. Please tell me how you will use this fact to self-flagellate yourself this time?"

His mouth drops open in surprise but then he presses his lips together and grasps the arms of his chair tightly.

"Cargo ships can carry a great many things around the world – not just food. And yet it is _food_ that is your primary concern. Believe me, Mr Grey, I didn't train for seven years without being able to make the blindingly obvious assumption that this goes back to your formative years when access to food was not always consistent. You don't wish others to suffer what you suffered: this is the very essence of philanthropy. Why are you so reluctant to recognise that fact?"

"Because it's not a fucking fact! It's business: that's all! Don't fucking patronise me!"

His face is a mask of anger.

"Don't patronise _me_, Mr Grey," I retort, letting some of my ire show. "There's a link, you know there's a link, and the reason you obstinately refuse to see it is because you're determined to believe that you don't have a humane bone in your body. Well, frankly, Mr Grey, that's bullshit – and you're full of it."

He gapes at me, for once, silenced. He leans back in his chair and stares at me doubtfully.

I speak more calmly.

"Well, I'm sorry, Christian, but you'll just have to face the truth: you're a good man."

It takes several attempts for him to try to speak.

"I was born a bastard, Dr Flynn, and now I'm a bigger one."

"So you want me to believe that your good deeds are entirely accidental?"

"I'm not trying to buy my way into Heaven, Dr Flynn. I'm already damned."

"Then perhaps you should see a priest and not a therapist," I reply, calmly. "Really, Christian, whilst I do enjoy a little theatre your cup does seem to be rather overflowing with a touch of the melodramatics at the moment."

He stares at me and, to tell the truth, he looks a little wounded. But then he raises an eyebrow and I see a small smile on his lips.

"Melodramatic? I haven't been called that before."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you have, just not to your face."

This time he laughs out loud.

"Well, _that_ might be true."

His body relaxes and he loosens his tie slightly.

"So, other than making multimillion dollar purchases of heavy industry, what else have you been up to?"

"Oh, the usual, Dr Flynn: whipping, fucking, making donations to charity."

"In that order?"

He smiles.

"Not particularly, although the whipping and fucking generally go together… not so much the other."

"Do whipping and fucking _always _go together, in your experience?"

The smile vanishes like mist on a summer morning.

"That's the way I like it."

"I'm curious: have you _ever_ had sexual intercourse with any of your submissives, or indeed when you yourself were a submissive, that didn't involve corporal punishment?"

"I see where you're going with this, Dr Flynn."

"How delightful: does that mean you'll answer my question?"

He scowls.

_Oh, we're back to the surly teenager – he's never far away_.

"No, Doctor Flynn, I haven't."

"Doesn't that strike you as… a little limited, when it comes to exploring your own sexuality, putting aside that of your submissives for a moment?"

"Limited! Dr Flynn, I've fucked more women, in more ways, for longer periods of time, than you can possibly imagine. I think I've _explored_ fucking pretty fucking thoroughly."

"Well, lucky for me, Christian, that I have quite a wide bandwidth when it comes to feats of the imagination. But you're deliberately misunderstanding me – again. How do you know that you wouldn't enjoy – what is your term – vanilla sex – if you haven't tried it?"

"We've been over this before, Dr Flynn."

"Yes, indeed: and you avoided answering me then, too."

His impassive, blank look is back.

"Perhaps you would consider it – as an experiment?"

"No, Dr Flynn, I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because!" He pauses. "Because I _need _it."

_At last – we're getting somewhere._

I can tell he's distressed again because he's using his trademark 'tell' of running his hands through his hair.

"Why?"

"Because I do!"

"But why?"

"Because I can't punish _her!_"

He screams the words at me, suddenly standing, and all the blood has drained from his face.

"Thank you for telling me, Christian. Please sit: take a moment."

His eyes are those of a wild animal in a trap; he's utterly vulnerable. I must choose my words _very _carefully.

"I've pushed you a lot this afternoon, Christian. It seems to me that you understand more about your _self_ than anyone: more than me, more than any number of the therapists you've seen over the years. But allowing yourself to say it out loud, to sort out the tangle of thoughts and ungovernable feelings: that's a step forwards, believe me. To use a rather trite metaphor: I can show you the path, but you're the one who has to walk it.

"But to take those steps you need to understand the direction you want to go. I believe you can _choose_ to be happy. That is the fundamental at the heart of my therapy. Decide where you want to be in life, Christian. You have already chosen to be a good man. You now need to allow yourself to choose to be happy, too."

His face morphs from anguish to defeat.

"I don't know how to," he says.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Dr Flynn, you have five minutes before your next appointment – with Mr Grey. May I get you a cup of tea?"

Dear Edna: she does worry about me. My receptionist takes an almost maternal pride in my work, and is always meticulous in her own. She has a calm and friendly air that has soothed many an agitated soul.

Personally, I cannot bear the type of physician's receptionist who wields the power of the appointment as a weapon, merely to emphasise the importance of their role – granting access to the hallowed gateway of Hippocrates' successors, I suppose. No, I far prefer a receptionist who will manage appointments professionally, _but_ who puts the clients' needs before his or her own sense of identity.

Edna is a real gem, and it has become my mission to show my appreciation for her daily. But today I learned a curious thing about her: although she is thoroughly professional, she has a soft spot for one of my clients. Indeed, her eyes become quite misty when she refers to Christian Grey.

I'm intrigued. And, because I am always in my consulting room, and because I have never seen them interact, I'm very curious as to why this might be. Is it maternal? Is it because he is undoubtedly an astonishingly handsome man, with an almost unearthly beauty? Or is it because she senses he is broken, his sadness worn like a mantle?

So, on this particular day, I have decided to leave my door ajar as I wait for Mr Grey's appearance.

He is a whole minute early: how unlike him. He is usually more precise in his time-keeping.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Parsons," he says, his voice soft and polite. Always polite.

"Good afternoon, Mr Grey. Dr Flynn is waiting for you. Please, do go in."

_Is that it?_

I'm disappointed: I'd expected some eureka-moment revelation.

Grey strides into my consulting room radiating latent power and carefully controlled energy. He's in CEO mode. I've seen it before in him: it's what we mere mortals call charisma.

'Charisma' has an interesting etymology. There is the theological definition of a divinely conferred power; but the Greek stem means 'gift of grace'. He's certainly graceful in his person, but this definition refers to the quality of mercy.

Lord Acton famously said, 'Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely'. Grey is one of the most powerful men in business in the US today. He is not corrupt: he is a philanthropist and straightforward, if brilliant in his business dealings. Grey, however, would say that he is corrupt.

I want to dig a little deeper into the source of this belief.

One strand, undoubtedly, is the way he was treated as a young child: the child is treated badly and comes to believe that the treatment is deserved because they are inherently 'bad', and that the punisher recognises this. But the second strand runs parallel to this: his early seduction by a female dominant. He believes that she 'recognised' something repellent in him – the 'bad' – and that her 'punishment' of him was deserved. His teenage rebellion required punishment and he believes her behaviour was justified and, later, desirable.

I would like him to make the connection himself, between the two types of 'punishment' – to see the parallels; so far he has not, or will not, make this leap.

"Good afternoon, Christian."

"John, good afternoon."

We shake hands and he sits. Goodness, is this an appointment or a business meeting? I feel I should be laying out my business proposition before him, and hope that he finds it to his liking. Well, that's an interesting idea. Hmm.

"Well, Christian, I certainly have a topic in mind; but if there's something you wished to discuss with me first, please, the floor is yours."

He raises his eyebrows. This is not my usual beginning and I see it has thrown him off stride a little.

"I'm intrigued, John. What has piqued your curiosity?"

_Ah, he's taken the bait_.

"I wish to take you back to one of our conversations from a few weeks ago. You began to tell me about the woman who seduced you when you were 15.

"_And you count her as a friend today?"_

"_She knows me better than anyone. I don't want to talk about her, Dr Flynn. Not now."_

He frowns.

"What do you want to know?"

_Everything, of course_.

"Let's start with an introduction: what is her name?"

He shifts slightly on his seat, uncomfortable with my question. But why?

"Surely you can tell me her name? Or, perhaps we could call her… Josephine?"

"No, not tonight, doctor," he smirks at me, then sighs. "I call her… Elena."

"And how did you meet Elena?"

He hesitates.

"She was a friend of my parents."

I'm not surprised: abusers are often closely connected with their victims.

"And you still see her… as a friend?"

"Yes."

"Do your family still see her?"

His expression is mulish: he really doesn't want to answer. I'm pleased when he does, because it shows his trust in me is increasing, albeit slowly.

"Yes."

_This is why he didn't want to give me her name: she is still part of his family's inner circle. Interesting._

"And they are not aware that you had a sexual relationship with her at any time?"

"Fuck, no!"

_No, of course not_.

"What do you think your parents would say to you if they found out?"

"They won't."

"But if they did?"

"They didn't find out for the six years we were together: they're not going to fucking find out now."

He's understandably defensive, and it's classic abused-child behaviour – trying to justify and protect the abuser.

"You don't have a sexual relationship with her now?"

"No. Just a business one."

_This surprises me – I wouldn't have guessed he mixed business with… personal matters._

"Oh?"

He sighs.

"I invested in her… business. I'm a silent partner. She's a very astute business woman in her own right."

"Yes, I'm sure she is astute: she began a sexual relationship with a minor under his parents' noses – who were friends of hers – and it was never discovered. I'd say 'astute' only begins to cover her… abilities."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," he snarls.

"Indeed: except I wasn't being sarcastic. Do you accept that the relationship was illegal?"

"Yes, but…"

"Yes or no, Christian. It's a simple question."

He frowns, and I see a tightness around his eyes. We have leapt out of his comfort zone into the very heart of his problems – into their depths, you might say.

"Yes, it was illegal in the eyes of the law," he says at last, "but she _helped_ me. I don't regret any of it."

"Yes, I see that. Would you regret it if you parents found out?"

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, a look of cold fury on his face.

"They won't."

"So you say. Let me put it to you another way, Christian: why do you think the law states that sexual relations for a child under the age of 16 are illegal in Washington State?"

He shrugs. "It's an arbitrary number: in other states it's 17 or 18; in France it's 15. So what?"

"Do you think Elena knew what the age of consent was at the time?"

"I would have thought so."

"So she knew she was breaking the law. Do you think she betrayed your parents' trust, by beginning sexual relations with their 15 year old son, who, by his own admission was fucked up at the time?"

"_She helped me, John!_ I've already told you that!"

"Yes, you have repeated yourself a number of times on that point, Christian, but it would be a pleasant change if you answered the question instead. Would your parents see it as a betrayal of trust?"

"I can't speak for them," he snarls.

"You mean you won't answer because you know that you'll have to admit the answer is 'yes'."

He stands up suddenly.

"This is fucking tedious, John."

"As I've said before, Christian, you're free to end our meetings at the time of your choosing."

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration. I've deliberately backed him into a corner: I know it and he knows it – and he really doesn't like it.

"It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks!" he shouts. "Elena helped me – when nothing else could!"

_Time to give him some room emotionally_.

"Would you say that Elena recognised your loss of control at that time?"

He lets out a long breath through his teeth.

"Yes."

"Would you say at the time that you had low self-confidence, that you were self-doubting, lacking in confidence and assertiveness, that you were likely to go on the defensive too easily?"

"Yes, all of those things. And your point is?"

"Humour me. And you felt that Elena's 'punishment' was justified?"

"Yes, she stopped me drinking and fucking up my life. If I drank, she made sure I didn't do it again."

"Would you say that you became emotionally dependent on her?"

I can see that this is a hard question for him: he doesn't wish to believe he could be dependent on anyone. I give him some time.

Eventually, he answers.

"At the time, I needed her. I needed what she could give me… she could touch me."

_Interesting._

"What do you mean by that?"

He sighs.

"She knew where she could touch me without… I didn't think I'd ever be able to experience…"

He pauses, the words sticking in his throat.

"Sex?"

"Yes," he says, his voice stiff with suppressed emotion. "She gave me a way to cope."

_And now for the punchline._

"Christian, I have just given you six characteristics that you claim for yourself when you were 15. I'll reiterate: you were naïve sexually and emotionally; you were willing to believe that Elena benefitted you; you agreed you had low self-confidence; you believed you deserved Elena's punishment; and you agree you were emotionally dependent on her. These are the six markers of how a manipulative person chooses their victim. If you wish, I can lend you George Simon's excellent book, _In Sheep's Clothing: Understanding and Dealing with Manipulative People_."

"That's a low, fucking blow, John," he shouts, fury surging through him.

_Perhaps_.

"You still see her as your saviour, Christian," I say quietly, "but by anyone else's definition she was a predatory paedophile."

And he reaches his breaking point.

Swearing horribly, he slams out of my consulting rooms.

The silence seems to berate me.

I lean forward on my desk, my head in my hands. Have I pushed him too far? Is his refusal to accept that his so-called control has been an emotional cage of Elena's construction, too much? Have I taken away his support structure without offering anything to replace it with?

No. He cannot grow and develop emotionally if he does not begin to see the truth.

Even so, I'm not sure how much my probing and pushing have helped him today. And I don't know if he'll be coming back.

I am interrupted with my musings on failure by Edna.

"Is everything alright, doctor? Mr Grey left in such a hurry – and before his appointment time was over."

"A disagreement, Edna. He didn't like the direction of our discussion."

"I see," she says and sighs. "Poor Mr Grey."

Her tone is so sad, I sit up straight and really look at her.

"You do seem to have a soft spot for our Mr Grey, Edna."

She meets my gaze. "As do you, doctor."

I'm taken aback, and then I realise the truth of her words. Yes, Mr Grey has become more than just another client. I'd like to say that the syndrome of doctors treating the symptom rather than the person is dying out. I'd like to say that, but it's rarely true. Of course, in private practice, one has a certain possibility of indulgence insofar as time, and therefore has a better of chance of really getting to know a client.

But, yes, there is something about our Mr Grey. Perhaps it is his refusal to see any goodness in himself, when it's blindingly apparent to both Edna and myself that goodness and decency shine out of him.

I know there are many, many people who would equate his sexual preferences as depraved and twisted – indeed Mr Grey believes that himself; but I have never known a human being strive so hard to _be_ good.

"You're right, Edna. I do have a soft spot for Mr Grey. But I'd be intrigued to know why you feel the same?"

Her response surprises me.

"Because he wants to deserve everything he has – so he never stops trying to be a better man."

_Indeed, she's right, but…_

"And you deduce this, how exactly?"

Edna gives me a look.

"It's written all over his face."

_Ah, it is the looks after all_.

She flushes slightly. "Goodness, doctor! Not in that way. I simply mean… he has a way of seeing the best in people…"

_Yes, even in that wretched woman, Elena._

"…but he doesn't see anything good in himself, does he?" continues Edna. "I mean, well, with his money and handsome face, you'd think he'd expect people to fall all over him, and maybe they do, but I've noticed that he treats everyone exactly the same. He is always polite – if a little old fashioned. Did I ever tell you my late husband used to mend clocks?"

"I'm sorry, pardon?"

"Yes, it was his hobby: it absorbed him for hours. I couldn't be bothered myself, all those tiny little cogs and springs. But Mr Grey is like that: he knows that the smallest spring, the tiniest cog, is important. See – he treats everyone equally."

"Ah, I see. Thank you, Edna."

How right she is. And that is undoubtedly why Grey's business is so successful: he values the detail. To use Edna's metaphor: he sees each cog as essential. Perhaps this is why he thinks so little of himself: he knows he has pieces missing – pieces of his past that he can't remember; empathy, that he is vaguely aware he lacks.

And, of course, the emotional void that he has filled – that has been filled for him – by the woman who manipulates him still.

He refuses to see it, and I understand why. If he has to admit that 'Elena' was a negative influence, then his whole, carefully constructed world will crumble. Unless… unless something – or someone – can replace that.

For the first time in my recent dealings with Christian Grey, I am not hopeful.

Edna turns to leave.

"Oh, by the way, doctor, Mrs Flynn asked me to remind you that you need to collect your tux from the dry cleaners for Saturday."

"Saturday?"

She rolls her eyes and smiles at me.

"I put in your calendar, Dr Flynn… the fundraiser that Mrs Flynn has become involved with? Something to do with supporting mothers who are drug addicts… er… I think it's called, now what was it... oh yes, 'Coping Together'."

Yes, I vaguely remember: one of Rhian's new charities that she's picked up. I hate these events: lots of rich people flashing their cash. Tedium ad nauseum with a bloody cherry on top. It's enough to drive a man to drink.

"Thank you, Edna. What would I do without you?"

"Miss a lot of appointments, doctor," she says, with a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"They jumped on their magic carpet and waved goodbye to their new friends. 'Come back soon!' said Mrs Moon-mouse. 'Yes!' said Herbert Moon-mouse. 'We're having broccoli with chocolate!' Mr and Mrs Mouse promised to come back soon. But perhaps not in time for broccoli with chocolate. What an adventure they'd had!"*

"Read it again, daddy! Read it again!" sang Connor, tugging at my jacket.

Aidan nodded, looking serious whilst he sucked the edge of his small blanket.

"I'm afraid I have to go out with mummy now, boys," I say, sadly.

The sadness isn't feigned: I'd much rather stay here with them, reading stories about mice who visit the moon on a magic carpet, than attend a bloody tedious fundraiser, no matter how worthy the cause.

"Don't go, daddy!" says Connor, sticking out his bottom lip in a sulk, a mannerism he definitely inherited from his mother.

"Mrs Olsen will read it to you, I'm sure," I say, trying to appease them, and see off the looming tantrum.

"Nooooo! She doesn't do the voices properly!" Connor whines.

The boys look up, distracted, and I turn to see Rhian watching us, a patient smile on her face.

"You look pretty, mommy," says Connor, his eyes wide.

Aidan nods. "Like a princess. Sparkles. Daddy looks like a penguin!"

_That is true: I am wearing a dinner jacket, which I absolutely refuse to call a tuxedo._

Both the boys have American accents – like their mother. It takes me by surprise sometimes and I have to remember that I am the odd one out here. I _have_ my bath, I don't _take _one; I have _jam_ on my toast – thick-cut marmalade preferably – not _jelly_, God forbid. '_I don't drink coffee, I take tea, my dear._'

The west coast of America has become my home, but sometimes I feel very much the outsider, the alien. And, on occasion, it makes me work my Britishness just a little bit more, don't you know.

"I think daddy looks very handsome," says Rhian, "not at all like a penguin." She smirks at me, then whispers, "more like Mr Darcy, to a discerning wife."

"You have impeccable taste," I agree enthusiastically.

She kisses the boys goodnight, handing over the reins to Mrs Olsen, and we head to the car.

"I'll drive us there, you drive back?" I offer.

"I'm not falling for that, John," she says, evenly. "Toss a coin: heads you drive, tails I don't."

"Very funny, Mrs Flynn."

"Thanks, doc. Okay, heads you drive: tails I drive."

I throw the coin. It lands heads up. Of course.

Throwing me a superior smile, she clicks her seatbelt into place.

"That coin was faulty," I complain, but her smile is implacable.

"Suck it up, doc."

"You know, this is _your _charity thing, Rhian. Now you're dragging me here, I at least ought to have the option of drinking myself into a quiet coma – that's only fair."

"Don't be so British, John. Just pretend you might actually enjoy yourself. And smile."

"Yes, dear."

_I never argue with my beautiful wife: I like my testicles where they currently reside._

She directs me out towards Bellevue and as we reach our destination, we join a line of limousines, mostly with foreign marques. Our station wagon looks desperately out of place, a child's dummy and several toys scattered across the back seat. Not that I mind that, but it makes me think the evening will be tedium ad nauseum, and a lot of rich people flashing their cash.

"I know what you're thinking, doc," says Rhian, "but it really is for a good cause – helping kids. Besides, it'll give you a good chance to network."

_Network: Heaven forbid!_

"I still know what you're thinking, doc," she smiles.

"You are the brains, my love, and I am merely the beauty."

She pokes me in the side and mentions a number of repercussions if I continue to be bad-tempered. The realignment of my testicles is among her suggestions.

"I will smile like the proverbial sun, my little sugar-coated wasp," I respond quickly.

"Yes, you will, John," she says, rather vehemently, and I know she's not joking.

A valet opens Rhian's door and another takes my keys, looking irritated that he didn't get to drive the Spider R8 that is nudging up the driveway behind us.

A dark green carpet illuminated by tiny fairy lights leads the way around to a vast, cathedral-like marquee. Two enormous ice sculptures of a stag and a doe greet us: the event is forest-themed it seems.

"You said this event is for children?" I ask.

"Sure. Well, mothers and children, where the mothers have a drug problem."

A cold trickle starts at my neck and works its way down my spine, and I tug nervously at my bow tie.

"Er, right: and what's the name of this charity?" I ask, hoping against hope that she's not going to say what I think she's going to say.

"Coping Together," she says. "Dr Trevelyan is tonight's hostess – you'll really like her. John, what are you doing?"

I have stopped mid-step.

"We have to leave, Rhian," I say, abruptly.

"What! Why? We just got here."

She stares at me in amazement.

"Seriously, Rhian. I can't tell you."

She catches on quickly and sighs. "Oh. Patient confidentiality?"

"Something like that," I mutter quickly.

She doesn't argue, God bless her; we turn to leave immediately.

And bump into Christian Grey.

"Not going already are you, John?" he says, raising an eyebrow and carefully hiding a smile.

His expression leads me to believe that he's overheard our terse conversation.

"Good evening, Christian," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Yes, I suddenly realised that I had business elsewhere. I'm sure you understand."

He stares at me appraisingly and Rhian gives me a puzzled glance.

"Well, perhaps now you've time to think about it, you'll decide you can stay after all and introduce me to your wife."

_Oh, I wasn't expecting that_.

I can see from the look on Rhian's face that she's caught up very quickly.

"Rhian, let me introduce you to Mr Christian Grey; Christian, this is my dear wife Rhian."

"Delighted to meet you, Mrs Flynn," he says, with old-fashioned courtesy.

His formality makes him sound more like 75 than 25.

Rhian takes his hand and shakes it, smiling politely.

"A pleasure, Mr Grey."

I am mightily puzzled: he is obviously aware that Rhian will by now have worked out that he is, in all likelihood, a client of mine, but he doesn't seem bothered by that fact. He wants us to stay. _Why?_

Before we have a chance to say another word, there's a shrill scream, and I turn suddenly, afraid that someone has been stabbed with a pastry fork before we've even reached the hors d'oeuvres.

A cannonball dressed in verdant green hurls itself at Christian. I wait for his defence mechanism to kick in and step aside; but he doesn't.

He catches her as she lunges at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and reaching up to kiss his cheek.

He's smiling.

This must be Mia. I am intrigued.

"Christian, where's Taylor? I found this amazing website for gay people who are ex-services. I just _know_ he'll love it."

"I drove myself," he replies evenly, as she thumps him on the shoulder.

"You're such a spoilsport, Christian," she whines.

I can tell from the tone of their voices that this is all part of their regular interaction; it's not a show put on for me. And I'm intrigued to see that she _touches_ him and he doesn't recoil. Interesting. It's going to be useful to see him interact with other people.

He peels his sister off me and turns to face Rhian and I again.

"Mia, I'd like you to meet Dr and Mrs Flynn: John and Rhian. Mia is my little sister."

"Oh my God! Are these like _friends_ of yours?" she says, awed.

I'm intrigued to see how he'll answer this question.

"John is my psychologist and I've just met Rhian."

_Oh. I wasn't expecting that: twice in as many minutes, he's surprised me. _For some reason he wants me to meet his family. _Why?_

"Christian, you're such a _tease_," she huffs, as we shake hands, then finds her attention diverted by a sullen-faced woman of her own age in an unappealingly revealing evening gown. The minty colour does nothing for her. A smile might help.

But then she leers at Christian, and I have to admit a smile does nothing whatsoever to help this unfortunately plain young woman.

"Hi, Christian," she simpers, and I can see she's itching to throw herself at him. Perhaps Christian's experiences of women are correct: they see him – then they lunge.

He takes a small step back and merely says, "Lily," then moves away into the crowd, nodding at me as he goes.

The girl pouts, and Mia rolls her eyes.

"Lily's liked Christian _forever_," she says, shaking her head. "I mean, I don't know if he's gay or whatever, but he's _not interested_, Lily!"

Her tone is exasperated.

Lily flounces off.

A real flounce: I haven't seen that since 'Gone with the Wind'.

Mia watches her for a moment then turns to me.

"Are you really Christian's shrink?"

I open my mouth to reply but am too slow.

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything. But he must really like you. And Christian never likes anyone. And he _never _introduces me to anyone – you're different. I mean, he's not rude or anything; but he doesn't introduce people unless he really likes them. He's so good like that. I wish he thought he was good, but he is, isn't he, Dr Flynn?"

Then she shakes her head again. "I know you can't answer that either. But he's just the best brother. I mean, he's a great brother; Elliot's great, too. He's our older brother. But Christian's always had time for me – even when I was a kid. He never got bored or impatient with me." She sighs. "Oh well. Enjoy the party. I'll tell mom and dad you're here. I expect you'll meet them later."

She flutters away and then turns quickly.

"It's Christian's 26th birthday next week," she calls over her shoulder. "I'm trying to persuade him to have a party. Will you come?"

She doesn't give me time to answer before she disappears into the crowd.

Rhian watches her, looking slightly baffled.

"Well, that was… interesting."

"Yes, wasn't it."

"So, you're treating the mysterious Christian Grey. I'd have to agree with his sister, John: I think he likes you."

I say nothing and she kisses me on my cheek. "And he's almost as handsome as you."

_God, I love this woman_.

We're shown to our table, full of medical doctors and their spouses. Rhian is enjoying herself, but I find I'm paying only scant attention to the lively conversation. Instead, I'm watching Christian Grey. It soon becomes clear that he's not here expecting any pleasure for himself: he's working. He's networking, as Rhian suggested I do. A word here, a handshake there. He's right: he reads body language well. When someone comes too close, he slides away; when a woman lunges, he's ready; when it's someone he doesn't want to talk to, he politely moves past them, without causing offence. He seems indifferent to all: except his family.

And then a tall man of about 30, with wavy, blond hair comes up to him, and punches him lightly on the shoulder. For only the second time that evening, a genuine smile lights up Christian's face. He is transformed, and I know it's because he loves these people. I assume that the man is Elliot, his elder brother.

Close behind is an attractive older woman whom is surely his mother. She touches him lightly on the arm, and he bends down to kiss her cheek. Again, his smile is sincere, but he holds back from real intimacy. There is no embrace. When he sees the man I guess must be his father, they shake hands, smiling at each other. Always smiling, never touching.

It's clear he loves his family; it's also clear that the only person who doesn't walk on eggshells around him is Mia. It's a fascinating snapshot of his family life. _He loves them and they love him_. _He knows them, but they don't know him._

And yet… and yet, despite their obvious love for each other, Christian is an unhappy man. He probably wouldn't quantify it as such himself: he would describe himself as broken. I disagree. We have had numerous discussions on the subject: too many and yet too few, because I have not been able to convince him of his innate goodness.

I see him at this party: he steps into the light for a few moments, smiling and talking to people; then he steps back into his aloneness, his pool of darkness. He moves from table to table, doing the right thing, saying the right words, but he is forever on the periphery, spurning attention. And yet, as I watch, I see eyes drawn to him as if he were the puppet master, pulling everyone's strings. Perhaps that is true charisma. Whispers follow him around the marquee: _Yes, that's him; that's Christian Grey. They say he's gay; they say he's celibate; they say he has a mad wife stashed in the attic; they say he's crazy; they say… they say…_

The whispers continue: he must hear them, but he ignores them all.

And I wonder if I do him any good at all. He is haunted by his past; I am haunted by the words of Theodor Adorno: 'Horror is beyond the reach of psychology'. Perhaps you are right, Herr Adorno.

After the meal, I am surprised to see Christian on the dance floor. He has never mentioned an interest in dancing to me. Rhian's eyes join mine.

"He's very graceful," she says quietly, as he sweeps his sister around the floor.

"Yes, he's an accomplished man."

"But a sad one," she says.

I don't disagree.

"Let's dance, John," she says, suddenly. "Let's see if those two left feet of yours have miraculously turned you into Fred Astaire."

"Skinny, bald and dead?" I ask. "And I'll have you know that my hoofing is talked about on three continents."

"Yes," she says, dryly. "It is."

I whisk her onto the dance floor, and lead her through the crowds, proving that I've still got the moves: Mr Darcy be damned!

I reach my limit when 'Mambo Italiano' begins to play, and Rhian is willingly whisked away by a doctor from Portland whom she knows slightly. I happily resign the floor. And I watch.

Christian dances effortlessly, gliding across the floor, never failing to match the rhythm, the picture of ease. Except I know better; _he_ knows better. He dances with his sister, with his mother, and with his grandmother. No-one else. Not even the ill-favoured Lily. Poor girl.

Until an attractive woman in a flowing, black, satin gown approaches him. I wait for him to step back: but he doesn't. She places her arms around his neck and he pulls her into his body. The gesture is shockingly intimate and speaks of prior knowledge. Then it hits me: _the woman is Elena_. His erstwhile Dominatrix; the woman who stole his virginity at the age of 15; the woman who influences his thought patterns and behaviours to this day, whether he knows it or not.

I admit to myself that I'm shocked. I knew he still saw her, but he called her a 'business partner'. And here she is, at his mother's fundraiser: still the trusted confidant within his family home.

I watch closely. Her hold is possessive, as if she's staking a claim. No other woman, save his family, has danced with him. It's a statement: _I dare – only me. Only I could give him what he needed. He's mine_. And it chills me. He is still in her thrall.

My bleak musings are thankfully interrupted.

"Good evening, Dr Flynn. I'm Grace Trevelyan, Christian's mother. I'm so pleased to meet you."

I stand up to shake hands and offer her a seat.

"It was kind of you and your wife to join us this evening: it's a very worthwhile cause and one close to our hearts, as I'm sure you can imagine – from what Christian must have told you."

I start to speak but she smiles at me and continues.

"I know you can't talk to me, Dr Flynn, at least, not about Christian, but my husband and I wanted you to know that… that we're very pleased to meet you. Christian has had many therapists over the years, but never one that he's bonded with before as he has clearly done with you. Thank you."

I clear my throat, wondering how to answer her speech. She saves me the trouble.

"Christian is a wonderful dancer, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's very accomplished."

"Oh, indeed. You should hear him play the piano. I had hopes once that… well, never mind. I do love to watch him dance – I think he must have learned those moves from his father. He's been coming to our fundraisers since he was a child. Oh, look: he's dancing with Elena. Oh, she's so good for him – she's the only person outside our family he'll dance with. Well, she's just about family – she's known him since he was a child. Well, since he was seven or eight. She's always taken a special interest in him: they have quite a close friendship."

I grip the sides of the chair, horrified by what she's said. This woman has known Christian since he was eight? She must have watched him, groomed him, for years. Suddenly, my Lobster Thermidor wants to make a reappearance. I swallow back the bile, my years of practice as a doctor allowing me to seem calm on the outside. I'm anything but.

"Does she have children of her own?"

"Elena? No. I think she preferred my children," says Dr Trevelyan, with a soft smile.

_Oh God._

The Head Waiter approaches and Dr Trevelyan rolls her eyes.

"Please excuse me, Dr Flynn – duty calls."

It's disturbing. For ten years this woman has had a vice-like hold over Christian's life. And yet, I must remember that he broke away from her when he was 21, choosing the role of Dominant that than to stay as her Submissive. It must have taken huge determination and resilience on his part. The thought gives me hope because _he wants to change_.

I can work with that.

*** **'The Magic Carpet Ride' by Jane A. C. West & Steve Empson


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_Pity would be no more_

_If we did not make somebody poor,_

_And Mercy no more could be_

_If all were as happy as we._

_And mutual fear brings Peace,_

_Till the selfish loves increase;_

_Then Cruelty knits a snare,_

_And spreads his baits with care.*_

I ponder these words as I sit at my desk. Can we only judge joy if we have measured sorrow? Are we only merciful because people need help? Does 'mutual fear' or mutual pleasure still bind Christian Grey to Eleanor Lincoln?

I sit. I think. I draw no conclusion.

I keep hearing the voice of Christian's mother echoing through my skull. I asked her if Elena had children – Grace's answer chilled me: _I think she prefers my children_.

Indeed she did, Dr Trevelyan. And she still does. _She will not let him go. She will not set him free._

For seven years Elena bided her time. Seven years she waited for the man-child that was Christian at 15. The thought sickens me. Christian still believes she helped him. I feel defeated. He wants to change but can he progress if he continues to believe that she was his saviour?

And if he were able to admit her role in his damaged psyche, how would it affect his relationship with his family? They see her as one of them – a trusted, loved member of their inner circle.

God, I'm such an idiot! That's it! Of course! _This_ is exactly the reason why he keeps himself at a distance from his family, particularly his mother. He can't reject Elena without rejecting his mother. If he severed ties with Elena, there would be questions – questions he doesn't want to answer or even admit to. He understands – at some level – that his relationship with that woman was wrong; by extension, admitting that to his mother would hurt her. He will tolerate any pain for himself – as Elena demonstrated determinedly and repeatedly over the years – but he will not tolerate more pain for the people he loves.

He admits he brought so much hurt to his parents during his adolescent years, he refuses to do it again by ridding himself of the Lincoln woman.

But no, that's too simplistic. He can't quite bring himself to let her go either. We all wish for one confidant, a person who knows the 'real me'. My beloved Rhian fulfils that role. Christian still believes Elena Lincoln does the same for him.

My intercom buzzes and Edna's maternal tones float through the air.

"Mr. Grey is here to see you, doctor."

"Thank you, Edna. Do send him through."

He strides into the room, his expression carefully schooled but his eyes are wary.

"Good morning, John."

"Good morning, Christian. Please, do take a seat."

He arranges his long limbs elegantly and meets my gaze unwaveringly. I wonder, ridiculously, if he practises not blinking. If so, his eyeballs must be as dry as the Gobi desert. I know why his defences are up yet again – I met his family.

And so we begin our dance: two steps forward and one back.

"I did enjoy meeting your family."

He shrugs. "Everyone does."

His subtext is glaringly obvious: _Everyone enjoys meeting them because they are good – I am not_.

"But I must apologise – I did not realise that the event was organised by your mother. I would not have presumed had I known."

He waves his hand dismissively. "I'm aware of that, John. I'm glad you met them."

"Might I ask why?"

He looks surprised, maybe even a little confused. "Why wouldn't I?"

_Avoidance by answering a question with a question_.

"You keep your life so compartmentalised. I was expecting you to have me thrown out on my ear by that fearsomely saturnine driver of yours."

He smiles. "Yes, Taylor is not renowned for his verbosity. But in any event, I drove myself last night."

"Ah, of course. The Spider R8. Driving, soaring, flying your helicopter, sailing your yacht – all adrenaline sports. The kickboxing, too, I imagine, to some degree."

He shrugs. A sophisticated gesture with him. "They all take focus and energy or mental energy. It helps."

"And all expensive."

He blinks. _Aha – a point to the doctor from Dedham._

"Not kickboxing."

"The ex-Olympic instructor notwithstanding?"

"It didn't start that way. Bastille is the best."

_Yes, the best of everything_. _All that money can buy. We do not mention the things it cannot buy._

"And music," I suggest.

"Yes, music has charms to soothe a savage breast."

"How whimsical of you, Christian."

"Not really."

"How so?"

"_The Mourning Bride_ is a tragedy."

_One-all. _I can't help smiling.

"And you mentioned you enjoy art."

"To look at. I can't draw for shit."

"You mentioned in a previous session that you have purchased several works. Have you bought anything recently?"

For some reason he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Christian rarely fidgets. Unwittingly, I have struck a chord.

"As it happens, I have."

I wait.

He waits.

We do that a lot.

"Your reticence makes me curious, Christian."

"The doctor's dilemma?"

"Very drôle."

He sighs.

"It's an early fifteenth century work by Nicolò da Voltri."

"Of?"

He finally meets my intrigued gaze.

"Madonna and Child."

He raises his eyebrows and waits for me to put two and two together. I must be feeling a little skittish myself because I don't feel like humouring him.

"Not a Pièta?"

For the briefest moment he glares at me, then a grudging chuckle breaks from him.

"You should be on the fucking stage, John."

_The first stage out of town if I can't help this man._

"Tell me a happy childhood memory, Christian?"

He scowls, his temper swinging towards the amber warning light.

"What the fuck is the use of that?"

Well, frankly it's glaring obvious. From the man who spends millions on the ultimate mother and child memorial. Remembering a happy time – remembering _how_ to be happy – is important in reinforcing a sense of worth, or peace. Many therapists ask clients to repeat positive affirmations as a way of increasing their sense of self-worth, to the point where it becomes a _new_, learned behaviour. The purpose is to over-ride previously established negative feelings.

I know this, Christian knows this, but he doesn't want to play the game. That in itself is interesting. At his core, he doesn't believe he _deserves_ to relearn happiness.

I pick up my fountain pen to make some notes.

"What are you writing?" he snaps, trying to read my script that is upside down to him.

"A shopping list."

"What?"

I look up.

"Christian, this is how it works: I ask a question because it has a purpose, not for my own amusement. I would simply you ask that you give me the courtesy of an answer, otherwise you're wasting my time as well as your own. And I calculate that so far your evasiveness has cost you in the region of $23,000. If only my own fee were commensurate."

His mouth twists because he doesn't know whether to be amused or irritated. He's probably a little of both.

"Fine. Aspen."

"Aspen?"

"Yes."

"Tell me more about Aspen."

He closes his eyes and looks down.

"Our parents took us skiing. I was six the first time and Elliot was nearly nine. Mia hadn't come to us yet. I remember liking the snow. It was different from the snow at home – drier."

"Diamond dust."

"Do you ski, John?"

"I have been known to flail around on two planks of wood, but no, I wouldn't call it skiing."

A small smile causes tiny creases around his eyes and some of the tension is eased from his shoulders.

"Elliot was pissed because I picked it up more easily than him. He thought because he was older that he'd be better at it."

He shrugs.

"It made our mother crazy."

"How so?"

"Because I was catching air by the end of the third day. I had no fear and…"

He stops.

_No fear_.

His face muscles appear to freeze.

"I've never been afraid of physical pain," he says, quietly.

_No indeed. It is mental pain that tortures him._

"What else did you like about Aspen?"

He takes a deep breath.

"The space. The snow. Everything looked so… clean. Fresh. When it snowed, it was as if everything was new again. Yes, I know how that sounds, John – all the dirty little secrets covered up under a blanket of white. What a fucking cliché."

_I won't be side-tracked._

"But you had good memories there?"

"Yes."

"Tell me one."

He leans back and closes his eyes, his forehead heavily lined as the pain he feels when I ask him to think of pleasure manifests itself.

Finally, he speaks.

"We spent quite a few Christmases and New Years there."

He doesn't elaborate.

"So, you have a number of good memories of Aspen?"

He nods.

"When was the last time you went?"

"Fuck, I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

This time he grits his teeth.

"Before I left for Harvard."

"Why didn't you want to tell me that?"

_No reply_.

I move on.

"Did you ever mix with other children while you were there?"

"Not really."

"'Not really' isn't no."

He tugs at his hair, leaving it standing on end.

"One year, there was a girl from my school. My parents knew hers a little."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen."

_Just before he met Elena._

"What was she like?"

"She was… pretty. I remember Elliot fucking teasing me about her."

"Was she a brunette?"

"As far as I recall."

"As far as _I_ recall, Christian, you have a near photographic memory."

He scowls but doesn't answer, instead crossing his arms across his chest in a rare, defensive gesture.

"What happened to her?"

"Nothing, that I know of."

"So this friendship didn't develop when you were back at school?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"If I knew I wouldn't ask."

His anger is only just in check.

I move on.

"I noticed you dancing with an attractive blonde woman at your mother's event last weekend."

_No comment_.

"I assumed it was Elena Lincoln because other than your family members, she was the only person with who you could be persuaded to dance."

_No comment_.

"Was my assumption correct?"

_Pause. Clenched fists. I watch as he forces himself to relax._

"Yes."

_A step back._

"You dance very well. Your mother says that you learned from seeing your father dance."

He snorts with amusement.

"Is that what she said?"

"Yes. Was she wrong?"

"Dad didn't teach me to dance. Christ, if he had… my mother made him go for lessons because he broke her toe once."

"So who taught you?"

His smile fades.

"Elena."

_I was not expecting that answer_.

"She taught you well."

"We didn't spend all our time fucking."

"Or being punished?"

He frowns.

"Do you see her often?"

"No."

"How many times a year?"

"Four. Maybe five."

"So once at your mother's fundraiser and the rest… all social occasions?"

"As I said: we're business partners."

"What do you talk about?"

"Business." He sighs as I stare back. "Specifically, her chain of salons."

"Anything else?"

"Such as?"

"It's your conversation, Christian – you tell me."

"I don't know. Life. The universe. Everything. Nothing. It's just _talk_."

"'Life, the universe, everything.' That is not nothing. Do you talk to anyone else like that? Shoot the breeze with friends from work, perhaps?"

"For fuck's sake! No, of course not. They're my employees."

"Old friends from Harvard?"

"No."

"School friends."

He is sullen and silent.

"Do you talk to anyone else the way you talk to Elena?"

His eyes are frigid.

"No. No one."

"Not even Elliot?"

"No, not really."

"What do you talk to your brother about?"

"His renovation and restoration business mainly."

"Just business?"

Again, he runs his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Most of it's a load of crap – women he's fucking, ballgames he's seen. That kind of thing."

"Do you think your brother is shallow?"

"No, I fucking don't!"

"You make him sound that way."

He glares at me.

"My brother has always looked out for me. I don't have to… pretend with Elliot. He doesn't ask me about my work. We go hiking. We go sailing. Fishing sometimes. He's a good person. He gives out this happy vibe. Everyone loves Elliot."

"But he doesn't know about your submissives?"

"Of course he fucking doesn't."

"What about Mia?"

"What about her?"

"Do you talk to her?"

"Fuck. This is getting tedious. Yes, of course I talk to my sister."

"And I suppose you'll tell me you talk to your parents?"

"Get to the fucking point, John."

"I'm trying to establish the facts, Christian. You say you talk to your family, that you're close to them, but they're not even aware of your sexual orientation. The only person with whom you really share 'life, the universe, everything' is Elena. Do recognise this definition, Christian? 'Emotional dependency is manifested by a marked and habitual inclination to rely on another for comfort, support, guidance, and decision making.' Would you say you're still emotionally dependent on Elena?"

_Light the blue touch paper and stand well back._

His mouth sets in a hard line but I can see that his brain is whirling at a thousand miles an hour behind his iron stare.

He stands up in one graceful movement.

"Time's up," he spits out, then turns on his heel and leaves.

So how do I sum up today's session? Exorcising Christian's demons is like battling the hydra: I cut off one head and two more spring up in its place. I am not a violent man so I am glad I did not have the chance to speak to Elena Lincoln at the recent fundraiser.

All I can do is to keep on presenting Christian with questions that he must answer for himself. And hope. I must not give up hope. I won't. But has he?

* William Blake, _The Human Abstract_


End file.
